singing the blues has been getting old
by circus-fantasy
Summary: "She hesitates and almost says home, but that seems to entirely out of place. And yet, when she looks up from the floor for the first time, to meet Finn's gaze, she gets an overwhelming rush of what the idea of home feels like." A Drabble.


She's not sure what makes her open those doors. What carries her feet down the aisle. What possesses her to let her feet climb up on that stage. But it feels so different in this setting. So quiet and calm and serene. So completely different than it was two days ago when she was standing in this same spot, setting the love of her life free. And to be completely honest, she likes the silence. She's always liked the almost haunting silence of an empty theater.

She's walking backstage when she sees a figure sitting on a stool; hunched over with an arm on his knee, a pencil in his mouth, and papers strewn forty miles wide around him.

But it's not the sudden surprise of a person interrupting her peace that makes her breath catch in her throat.

And in a moment of bravery, "You're still here?"

He almost falls off the stool when her voice breaks through his concentration.

"Rachel?" He pauses, setting the pencil down, and pushing himself up from the stool.

"Uh, hi," she says almost as nervously as if _he_ had caught _her._ She's not entirely sure what makes her so nervous in this moment. Maybe it's the notion of them being officially broken up that takes her back to that state of being a fifteen year old glee club loser and unattainable Finn being the football jock.

"So…" he shuffles he feet nervously, as if he's as at a loss for words as herself. "Well, I don't know why you're here, but I was just doing to work for glee club while Schue's busy packing."

"Oh. Well," she wrings her hands, "I was just dropping by once more, you know, before my flight back to New York." She hesitates and almost says _home, _but that seems to entirely out of place. Home? To Rachel, home is a word like _love—_not just something to fling around. And yet, when she looks up from the floor for the first time, to meet Finn's gaze, she gets an overwhelming rush of what the idea of home feels like.

Finn begins walking forward then, and she just stares; because maybe they're supposed to be broken up now, but _god, _he looks good. And maybe, when he places his hands on her hips so very gently, and so very Finn-like, she let's him. She let's him flex his fingers against her jeans, and she let's him back her up to the couch the stays hidden backstage.

But when her calves hit the fabric, she's the on in charge now, and Rachel pulls Finn on top of her, letting one of his legs settle between her own. They don't even kiss—not for a few moments anyway. Finn just stares at her, his eyes scanning her face as if to remember every detail of her skin. And Rachel let's her fingers run through his hair, gets used to the shorter length of it, the only visible memory of his time in the army.

When he does kiss her though, softly and slowly and utterly perfect, she let's him have control—relishes in the feeling of being loved by someone again.

"Can we go back to my house?" Instantly, she's transported back to their days of high school, nostalgia crashing down on her like a tidal wave.

And so he says, "Sure," pulling back to look at her with the utmost adoration in his eyes. "Just let me get my papers."

—

Her parents are gone when they get there, and she leads him to her room, just like last year and the year before. To be honest, it feels as if nothings changed. Her stomach is in a knot (though that may be from the fact that they seem to be breaking some other rule now).

"One last time," she whispers when she presses her lips to his.

But he pulls back to look at her, "For now. Not forever," he tells her.

She thinks she might cry right then and there.

—

It's slow and sweet, and rushed and desperate. It's the last time, and it's the first. This bond they have that they haven't shared, not really, since months ago. Rachel can feel the lump in her throat as Finn peels her t-shirt up over her head, pulls her jeans down the the floor. And when she snakes her hands up under his own shirt, pushing it up off of his body, she swears she's going to cry. Pulling back to look at him, she realizes how completely different he is.

But when he lays her down onto her back, hovering over her _ just so_, maybe it's not so different after all. When he runs his hands down her sides, even though they're more calloused than before, the touch is the same. And when he slips into her, he's so much more confident now than he was before.

And after, just like always, he pulls her to his chest, kicks a leg over her own, and nuzzles his face into her hair.

"That may be the last for now, but not forever, baby girl." And there's that tug at her heart again, that lump rising into her throat.

Only when she can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back does she let the first tear fall.


End file.
